


Vatican Cameos

by ttigerlily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-11-26 00:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18173396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttigerlily/pseuds/ttigerlily
Summary: Life has always been a roller coaster for Sherlock Holmes. Especially after meeting John Watson. But now, six months after having his sister Eurus readmitted to Sherrinford, he thinks maybe things will be able to calm down. Oh, how wrong he is. Drugs are still on the streets, and Mary's video is still fresh in John's mind. A journey of discovery, heartbreak, disaster, and love is still to come for the Baker Street boys.





	1. The Greater Game

**Author's Note:**

> hi !! welcome to my first fic haha . i hope everyone that happens to come across it likes it and continues to read !! i write slowly and have limited time, but this is a story that's been in the works for a looong time, so patience is key :)
> 
> it is set about six months after the final problem, and i haven't changed anything canon . this is basically what my canon after-story would look like, but depressing and angsty lol
> 
> enjoy !!

One of the most important lessons for John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers to learn was that life goes on. People go to war and die, but life goes on. Some people are murdered and others commit terrible crimes, but life goes on. The people closest to you can tragically and suddenly lose their lives, but life goes on. No matter how hard it was, John just had to keep trying to believe it. Most days, it was still tremendously difficult without her. He could see her in Rosie, the way the light bounced off her blonde curls, the vividness of her big blue eyes when she opened them wide to laugh. But the one thing that bothered John was that it wasn’t like losing Sherlock. Mary was strangely, annoyingly, different. 

His alarm clock buzzed for the third time that morning and he finally slammed a hand on it to make the horrific noise stop.

“Thank god,” Sherlock’s silky voice splashed down the hall, the sarcasm seeping through the cracks of John’s bedroom door, “It’s eleven o’clock John, we’re going to be late for Lestrade. Again. And since your body seems to need sustenance every few, pathetic hours, you can stop at the cafe on your way out. I’m getting a taxi. I need to think,” John let out a controlled breath and tried to smile. It still felt more like a grimace, but at least he wouldn’t have to feel like he was falling short of Sherlock’s genius the whole cab ride to Scotland Yard. He didn’t need more of that.

John yawned and stretched, his shirt rising above his waistband, a slap of cold air hitting his stomach. He could hear Rosie gurgling in the next room on the quiet Sunday morning. Almost a year old now, she called John Dada and Sherlock Papa. John smiled and picked her up, bringing her to the kitchen for some food before dropping her off downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. 

“What to give you this morning? Let’s see... “ John rummaged through the fridge, attempted to find something edible and not made from human remains, “How about some applesauce, huh? Rosie loves applesauce, doesn’t she?” John handed her the bowl and spoon, which she took to enthusiastically and with a slight squeal. John winced, yawning again as he briefly returned to his bedroom to pick out their clothes for the day. He couldn’t even remember what case they were working on now. It was a new one, John expected. The one he and Sherlock had been working on previously had involved lots of mud and some angry rodents. He was eager to forget about it. His phone dinged in the kitchen.

Get Watson downstairs and hurry over.  
Now.  
SH

John sighed and left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, who tittered about the hurry he was always in, and briskly walked out into the cool September air. It took John a good few minutes to catch a taxi, and all the while he could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. The man just did not give up, did he, John lamented. Secretly, he was pleased. Mary’s voice slithered into his head, always unwelcome. I know what you two could become-

“You ok, mister? This is your stop,” the driver glanced at him in the rear view, a flash of recognition in his eyes, but John hopped out of the cab before he could utter a word.

“Yes, of course, thank you. Have a nice day,” he was afraid he might’ve said that with too much bitterness as he slammed the cab door and was left standing in smoke. Sherlock’s voice greeted him as soon as he turned around. 

“We’re leaving, John! Crime scenes to see, corpses to wrap up. The game is on,” he practically bounced to Lestrade’s car and made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. Greg caught up to John and shook his head. He swore he glimpsed a foreboding look in the detective’s eyes, but  
Lestrade turned away too quickly for John to be sure. He got into the backseat as Greg turned the key in the ignition. John still had no idea what this case was even about. At least with Lestrade in the car, he might have a chance at gleaning some valuable information. 

“So, what exactly happened? Sherlock hasn’t told me anything,” he purposely directed this statement to Lestrade, who caught John’s eye in the mirror. 

“Well, it’s a bit complicated, actually-”

“Only for you, Greg,” Sherlock quipped. At least he had learned Lestrade’s name, John thought.

“You don’t know that,” Greg blustered.

“I’m making a perfectly logical assumption based off the eleven years of experience I have had with you,” Sherlock smirked, seeming to play with the bewildered look on Lestrade’s face, “however, I am prepared to be surprised.”

The car slowed to a stop. They had been driving a while, and they were now outside the city limits, John noticed. The wheels ground into the gravel of a hillier, sparser area, where little houses lined up, one atop each hill, creating a whimsical paradise for those who wished to live their lives in peace outside the bustling ecosystem of London. Except, of course, that there was bright yellow police tape covering the entirety of the house that they had just stopped in front of. Several police cars waited outside, lights flashing in the bright sunshine. It was eerily quiet as the grit crackled under their feet, the three men carefully stepping out of the car, as if waiting to see if something would explode. It didn’t. Sherlock was already scanning the house and surrounding area. John wondered what horrific thing lay in wait for them. He was, undoubtedly, a touch excited.

“Well, here we are. I warned you, Sherlock, and I’ll warn you both again. You’re not going to like what you see. Just don’t fear the worst. Please,” John frowned, the creases etching deeper into his forehead as they walked to the door.

“Donovan is inside, I’ll let her know we’re here and then I’ll take you two back,” Lestrade swiftly shut the door behind him and John could hear his receding footsteps. Meanwhile, Sherlock was looking rather perplexed, examining everything from the paneling on the side of the house to the tiny scratches on the screen door. 

“So you really don’t know anything about this case, then?” John asked, not really expecting a response. Maybe he could make himself useful by writing down some observations.

“Yes… triple murder. The bodies will be in the back, and Greg is clearly assuming that it will upset us greatly. I do not think he realizes the extent of which we have seen and experienced already,” Sherlock lost himself in thought again as he ran his light fingers over the splintering wooden porch. John looked around. All the other houses on surrounding hills were dark. Strange, he thought. It was barely two in the afternoon.  
The screen door slammed as Lestrade crossed the threshold and John jumped. Sherlock looked up, his curiosity obviously peaking. Why was it only interest in cases that would dig up his emotions? John shut the thought down as quickly as it came, barely registering it. Lestrade motioned that they follow him into the backyard. The space was large and built up with delicate looking flowers, plants, and shrubs. Must’ve been a gardener, or at least a green thumb, he mused. John didn’t even realize what he was supposed to be looking at until his gaze shifted downwards. He froze. Not only were there three dead bodies, but they were cut up and arranged. He almost couldn’t look as he brought a hand up to his mouth, trying not to retch. Glancing at Greg, he received a grimace. John tentatively stepped closer and a sharp gasp escaped him. The limbs—they spelled something out in the trampled and bloody grass. He stared at the ground, willing his eyes to reveal the deception. It couldn’t be. But the bloody mess ‘MISS ME?’ continued to stare up at him. Oh god. Oh god, no. The letters seared themselves into his brain.

John tried to reason with himself. It didn’t work. His mind raced. There was no way this could really be him. When he finally tore his eyes away from the revolting scene, his eyes flitted to Sherlock. He too was frozen. Not a calculating, careful frozen that meant the slender detective was thinking, but one that John had felt one too many times in a war far, far away. Sherlock’s eyes slowly glazed and he gently slipped his hands into his coat pockets. Only John noticed the slight tremor that passed through them. A slight huff came crying into the fall air, and John knew there was nothing he could do for his friend. Not if this was for real.

Lestrade looked on helplessly for a few more seconds until speaking,

“You know, it’s really probably just someone trying to get a good scare out of you-” this was not a good scare, thought John. There were a million other things that someone could have done for a scare, “-I mean, he’s dead. Moriarty’s dead,” this was greeted by silence.  
Did Greg not remember what had happened just six months ago? Moriarty had been dead then, too. Sherlock didn’t move, and John elected to stay silent, so Lestrade rambled on.

“I shouldn’t have brought you guys out here... Let’s go in and get some tea?” John’s eyes still didn’t leave Sherlock as the taller man cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. His hands came out of his pockets and seemed to steady as he fixed his scarf. Suddenly John’s eyes were torn to another. A bloody, terrified severed head stared up at him, eyes open and mouth yawning. It was the dot below the question mark on the sentence. John coughed violently and turned away. Sherlock’s smooth voice broke through the sound of John’s fit.

“No Greg. I think we shall stay. I’ll skip the tea, though I’m sure John will take some. What do you and Donovan have so far? I’ll examine… it, more thoroughly, later,” Lestrade gaped at Sherlock and gave him his famed incredulous look.

“But Sherlock, you haven’t looked at them at all,” Sherlock’s eyes snapped to his with such force that the poor man stepped back, realizing his error.

“I said, I shall examine them when you tell me what you know,” John was clearly the only one to hear the faint hint of uncertainty in his voice as Greg backed up the porch steps and opened the door.

“Have it your way, then, Sherlock,” The trio dutifully marched up the stairs, the door snapping shut behind John and leaving the smell of rotting corpses outside.

As Sherlock drank the tea he had earlier so bluntly refused from Lestrade, John watched him. Mycroft chided him in his head. He really was quite an emotional child, you know. But, John Watson, caring is not an advantage. John’s eyes didn’t listen and they traced down from his unruly curls to the slide of his mouth on the teacup. God, John thought, I can’t even focus when there are three dismembered people laying just outside a door. His adrenaline was palpably not centered on the matter of importance. Sherlock put the teacup down with a soft clink and assumed his thinking position, index fingers pressed against his lips, thumbs on his chin and palms together. The last thing John noticed before Sally Donovan broke the steady silence was that Sherlock’s eyes were no longer so troubled. John’s shoulders relaxed.

“So, how many brilliant ideas have you got this time, freak? Quite the puzzle, even for you,” Donovan seemed so sure of herself, undoubtedly thinking Sherlock would be too frightened or baffled to continue on with the case. 

“Eight so far, actually, but your presence is annoying me, so now it’s seven,” John smiled as Donovan scoffed.

“No wonder no one believes you can actually do all these things you say you can,” she sniffed and click-clacked out of the room, muttering under her breathe. she left behind the faint smell of men’s deodorant, John noticed. Funny how some things never changed.  
Sherlock apparently then noticed how intently Lestrade was staring at him, obviously waiting for him to share any or all of his deductions. He sighed deeply and his eyes rolled so far back into his head, John swore his irises disappeared. 

“Greg, please do stop staring at me quite so intently. It must be a strain on your eyes. As I mentioned quite clearly outside, I will go examine the corpses when you tell me what you have deduced already, as little as that might be,” Lestrade’s eyes widened, clearly still shocked that Sherlock would even think to ask his opinion. At least, John hoped, this was because Sherlock was confident it really wasn’t Moriarty or people working for him. He brought his attention back to the room and saw Greg gasping like a fish out of water. 

“Uh… well, Sherlock, you know you and John usually handle this bit…”

“Oh come on now, don’t tell me you’re out of practice. I do hope you haven’t left all the work for me over the last eleven years,” Lestrade relented. John heard Sally Donovan’s heels and was aware of the fact that she was standing right behind the doors, listening.

“Um, well, three victims. Two female and one male, one of the females lived here. Name was Martha Powers. Other two haven’t been ID-ed yet, but the male was in his late fifties, and the other female was late thirties. Powers was twenty-five. Cause of death for all of them was blood loss, but they all display signs of brute force, so we’re probably looking at a man here,” he was greeted with silence, which lasted for a good few minutes.  
John didn’t dare interrupt Sherlock’s thinking, so he tried to think himself. Something about this case was so familiar, yet John couldn’t for the life of him identify what it was. That name, Martha Powers, he thought. Where had he heard it before? As usual, Sherlock answered his question without him having to ask it.

“Precisely, John,” Sherlock declared, reading the puzzled look that had apparently etched itself onto John’s face perfectly, “It really is quite clever. Him, but also not him. Powers, Prince, and Woodbridge. Or rather, his roommate. It’s excellent,” All fear and concern dissipating, Sherlock clapped and swept himself dramatically out the back door, his coat billowing out behind him. He even popped up the collar.

John and Lestrade just exchanged glances, resigning to begrudgingly follow Sherlock. The old porch steps creaked as the men descended. Sherlock did not so much as acknowledge their presence, which was customary. He was frantically searching the corpses, looking at them while standing up, squinting against the afternoon sun, then bending down and pulling out his magnifier to stop and inspect every tiny cut and bruise. If only Sherlock doted on the living like this, thought John. He immediately swept the thought away. Mary’s warm, soothing voice filled his mind, sliding into every crevice. Go, Watson. Ask if he needs anything. Make yourself useful! but John needn’t have said a word. Sherlock stood up and locked eyes with him, sending him reeling into the pale depths. 

“John, come have a look. What do you see?” he trudged over, trying not to dislodge any limbs, and dutifully scrutinized the pieces, starting with the severed head. He tried to focus on the distinguishing features of the face. The protruding almost, well, nosey-looking nose, those probing pity-loving eyes… John paused.

“Sherlock…” he began, looking up. The detective was patiently waiting, hands clasped behind his back and a feigned look of curiosity splayed across his royally perfect visage, “This man… He was Connie Prince’s brother,” a look of realization flooded John’s face as Sherlock nodded, “...and Martha Powers--she had to be a relative of Carl Powers,”

“Younger sister, in fact,” Sherlock clarified for him.

“And the last woman--I spoke to her once. Interviewed her about Alex Woodbridge. She was his flatmate,” John furrowed his brow and thought for a moment more, “The great game…” he muttered, remembering the name he had given that particular case on his blog what seemed like all those years ago. Sherlock looked ruffled, still refusing to accept John’s blogging habit. John happened to know he secretly loved it. Lestrade, who felt quite left behind, spoke up.

“What’ve they all got to do with each other?” it was then that Sherlock’s patient, rewarding facade dropped. He dragged out an exasperated sigh of annoyance and disappointment as if deciding how to respond to such an imbecile question. John decided it was safest if he answered. After all, Greg was their ride back into London. 

“The great game was one of the first cases where we encountered Moriarty. Remember, where he threatened to blow people up if Sherlock didn’t solve the cases?” Lestrade looked just as muddled. Even John didn’t consider himself this dense, “Coincidentally, they were also the cases of Carl Powers, Connie Prince, and Alex Woodbridge,” Sherlock nodded, seemingly pleased with this summary of events. 

“Oh. Alright, yea. So, someone thought it would be funny to round up everyone that was close to the victims and impersonate our mate Jim?” clearly the answer he was expecting was a clear ‘of course, it’s quite obvious.’ but both men were surprised when Sherlock gazed intently over the bodies and uttered,

“I don’t know,” the heaviness in the air seemed to stretch on forever as John watched Sherlock’s mouth purse, relax, and purse again. He arranged his words carefully.

“I’m going to collect some samples, tell Donovan we’re done here,” and without waiting for an answer, Sherlock began swabbing and picking.

Lestrade and John reentered the house as John took out his notepad and a pen.

“Watson, can you make a suspect list? Actually, no, that’s not a question. Do it. And this time, please try to at least rule out some people who quite obviously were not a part of this.”

“Already on it,” he didn’t even bother to respond to the second part of Sherlock’s request. As he uncapped his pen, John prayed that he would never have to write the name Moriarty down again.

Back at the apartment, Sherlock was in his mind palace. He was already laying down on the couch, hands together, fingers splayed against his lips and thumbs under his chin as John strode through the doorway. He happened to glance down Sherlock’s arms and spotted three nicotine patches hiding barely below the sleeve. That was not reassuring. Then again, they had faced many three-patch problems in the past. Alas, that also meant that John was correct. Sherlock was definitely scared by this case, whether he decided to admit it or not. John knew he certainly was.

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, feeding Rosie and cooing almost more than the baby herself. She turned and smiled when she saw him. Rosie was still happily obsessing over her food. 

“Oh, John! You’re back! As always, little Rosamund is an angel…” he tried not to wince at the sound of her full first name. He felt terribly guilty, but it was, almost a year later, still hard for him to hear. John insisted that he and Sherlock stuck to Rosie. Although Sherlock honestly only ever called her Watson anyways. He really hoped that didn’t follow her into childhood, though John knew that was a lost cause.

“So,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice brought John back to reality. Her eyes were practically gleaming with curiosity, “How was the case? Interesting, I take it. Sherlock didn’t even demand tea of me before lying down and slapping on those patches. Not that he should, really. I’m not your housekeeper, you know,” John had to smile as he picked up Rosie, now covered in crumbs, from her chair.

“Um, it was… special. Might take a while. Nothing groundbreaking yet, I can assure you,” John knew Mrs. Hudson could practically smell the lie, but she kept quiet and, wishing him and Sherlock a good evening, tittered her way out of the apartment. He heard her muttering about her evening soothers as she tromped down the stairs. How could one older woman have so much energy? John thought. He could barely get out of bed in the morning and he doubted if he didn’t have Rosie, he probably wouldn’t.

He sighed and relaxed his shoulders, noticing all the tension that was trapped in them. Rosie grabbed his face and giggled. John, tiredly, smiled back at her. After he laid her down in her crib, he returned to the kitchen. He thought he might actually be dreaming when he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of coffee. Since when did Sherlock make his own coffee? Since when did he even drink coffee? John rubbed his eyes. Sherlock stared at the wall, eyes locked in place. He couldn’t hide the fear, worry, and sadness nestled deep in them now.

John gently touched his shoulder and the slender man’s side twitched.

“It’s been a long day. Go to sleep. Please,” Sherlock loosened his hold on the mug and released a shaky breath. He nodded shortly and John turned into his own room. As he shut off the light he whispered,

“I love you, Mary,” Rosie shifted in her crib as if she had heard.


	2. Phantoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreams won't stop. Day in and night out, Sherlock is plagued. What will it take to make them go away? Meanwhile, John tries to balance the newfound chaos making its way into the duo's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for like the crazy wait omg. finally up !!! im trying to punch the next few out but im soooo busy so please bear with me !! :)

Sometimes, Sherlock felt it was he that had never returned from the war. Sure, he didn’t have phantom leg pains, or scars to show from big guns (although he did have numerous from small pistols), but he felt the fear all the same. Most nights, he jerked awake, sweating and breathing heavily. Every night, he saw Eurus’ face hovering above him, crying and pleading of him to release her, only to drown him in that deep, dark well with a dog barking in the distance. Nonetheless, these nightmares were practically bland next to those about James Moriarty. They absolutely terrified Sherlock. 

Tonight, it was the cell. He felt the steel door shut him in with a deafening clang as the room materialized around him. The straight jacket clad figure kneeling on the floor lifted his eyes. Sherlock barely managed to hold back the panic and screams that built up in his chest as the soul-sucking brown eyes locked with his. Endless night against a bright, multi colored dawn. Sherlock couldn’t move.

“Oh! Hello!” Moriarty's face contorted into a perfect ‘o’ of feigned surprise. Sherlock shrank smaller against the cold, rough wall.  
“Awww, don’t be scared! Come out and play! Little Sherly is always scared! Don’t be! Come out and play! Come out and play!” the words reverberated around Sherlock’s mind, bouncing off his skull and entering through every available crevice. He tried to scream, but it only made everything louder. As he banged on the door, the spider spun Sherlock into his web, the silky sweet voice bubbling through the chaos. 

“You’ll never solve my little puzzle without my help. Come on Sherlock, pulllll yourself together! We’re the same, remember? I’m a part of you.” Moriarty’s teeth gnashed, “Chaining me up won’t do you any good,” Sherlock whimpered. He wanted out. Any out. 

“Uh-huh. That’s right! Come on over. Ch-rist! It’s not like I can touch you or anything. Though, really, one day you should let me. You might even like it!” 

Sherlock shook as he slowly reached with one hand to untie the jacket and break the chains that held Moriarty to the grimy well-wall. He was powerless. His shirt sleeves slipped as he extended his other arm, speckled white scars glinting in the fluorescent light. 

Moriarty grinned as Sherlock’s hands came to rest on the lock. 

“Come on, Sherly. What’re you so afraid of? You’ve fought me before. But…” his face leered above Sherlock, mouth stinking of chemicals, “What if this time, you didn’t?” His tongue clicked and the lock sprang open, white jacket slipping off with ease, chains falling to the ground with a deafening noise. Then all hell broke loose.

 

Sherlock woke to the incessant knocking on his door.

“What do you want,” he mumbled into his pillow. His sheets were practically soaked with sweat, his heart beating faster than the rain pattering at his window.

“Are you alright? I heard…” there was a pause, “I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Sherlock heard a small fist pound on his door, presumably Watson, cradled in John’s arms. He still couldn’t bring himself to move, so he produced a weak reply and shut his eyes once again.

Eventually Sherlock heard John’s footsteps recede down the hallway. The visions flashed again, so violently that his eyelids snapped open. He tried his best to focus on the patterns the raindrops made on the windowpane as he gingerly rose from his bed. A shower would be good, he thought. 

The cold water helped, although minimally. Unfortunately, raising the water bill would not stop his thoughts. As he finished drying off, Sherlock was careful to avoid his arms. Instead, he stuffed them, wet, into his shirt sleeves. That was a problem for another night. 

In the kitchen, he found John making coffee. Sherlock supposed he should feel grateful, but instead an armored annoyance was all that filled him. He hated it when John acknowledged his weaknesses, even with acts of kindness. Snatching the mug set out on the counter for him, he stomped into the sitting room, saving a flitting grimace for the baby. 

“So, I was thinking…” John began.

“Don’t. It’s irritating,” Sherlock quipped as he stumbled into his chair. He registered John stepping back, mildly hurt.  
Decapitating the snake of remorse that started to constrict him, Sherlock opened his computer. Immediately, he was bombarded with notifications, emails, and blog responses. He felt as though he was spinning, too fast and out of control. Pearly smiles stared back at him between the letters and eyes popped through the buttons. Music drifted up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, and it was too much. 

Sherlock practically sprinted down the stairs, seizing his coat at the doorway. He vaguely discerned John shouting at him, asking him where he thought he was going like that, he had just gotten up, but the door to Baker Street was already latched shut. 

Lighting one of the cigarettes that he had grabbed from his wall stash, Sherlock tried to breathe. A three patch problem… he thought. If only.

It had been a month since the mysterious triple murder, and it was still nowhere near solved. After visiting the scene of the crime, the flashbacks, dreams, and anxiety had just gotten worse. 

He took a drag and relished the familiar arid smoke filling his lungs. It choked him for a moment before he exhaled. So far, not one of his seven theories were looking very likely. Sherlock’s normally sharp, logical thoughts simply would not let any sense through. He was, undeniably, stuck. His mind ran on a loop, over and over. How could this benefit anyone? Other than harming him, what could someone get out of this? 

The most exasperating part for Sherlock was that he was absolutely sure the answer was obvious. He bit his lip, the anger bubbling up inside him as a drop of blood slid down his chin. he absentmindedly wiped it away. He had really thought he could put the past behind him. Why wouldn’t it stay? Sherlock decided to visit Bart’s. Dead people were the only ones who truly offered no disturbance. 

The taxi ride there was a quiet one. Light, dreamy violin played from the cab and Sherlock’s sleeves dripped, the water stain turning his coat a darker black. Charcoal, to onyx. Again, and again. He watched the stain spread. As his thoughts wound their way around his mind, he lifted his sleeve and felt over the bumps with a vacant stare. One, five, nine... The cab stopped. Cold washed over him as he stepped out into the rain. 

When he entered the building, Molly Hooper was practically waiting for him.

“Sherlock! What a nice surprise. I haven’t seen you in ages,” she smiled, and he couldn’t help but relax a bit.  
“Yes, I just needed a place to think,” Sherlock pronounced, striding up the stairs and around the corner to the morgue. Behind him, Molly’s heels clicked and her smile wavered. 

“Oh- of course. I’ll move my things to the other room… If you need anything—to talk, I mean—or… I don’t know. I’ll be right there,” Sherlock flashed her a tight-lipped smile and made one last request,

“Molly, which numbers belong to Powers and the other two?” her eyes saddened as she rattled off the numbers, closing the door softly behind her. 

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, still. Seconds, minutes, seemed to pass. Nothing moved, except the slow dripping of his coat echoing on the stone floor. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Why him? Sherlock reflected on this and, realizing it was quite futile, opened the first drawer. Staring down at the body bag, he thought about John. Sherlock had lied to him a couple of weeks ago, saying he had gone to examine the bodies. Why? He didn’t know. It felt like the first of many. Again, he decided, a problem for another day.

He unzipped the bag, scattered observations racing through his mind, overlapping, bumping, fighting for space. This body had been more or less arranged, the limbs placed next to each other to mimic how they would look in life. The skin at the end of each piece was flayed, ragged, and frozen mid-rot. Cut with something not quite sharp enough, Sherlock mused. His vision blurred and in three quick snaps, ropes split. He shook his head and the memory was whisked away. Why, he pondered, would someone with such expertise in dismembering bodies, not use a functional tool? If they were so knowledgeable on the subject, would they not work in a profession that tools like that were available? 

A name floated through Sherlock’s mind, just out of his reach. He chased it, but it dissolved before he could catch it, fading into the corridors of his Mind Palace. Old colleagues taunted him, deep in his mind. He leaned over and grasped the drawer tightly, squeezing his eyes shut until he saw spots. Frustrated, he slammed the drawer shut, and opened the next one. Sherlock once again tried to compose himself, but the words began to sear behind his eyes, and the straight jacket loomed in front of them. 

Trapped, he slid to the floor. 

_Eurus. Eurus. Eurus. Eurus._ The name beat in time with his heart, the thick stream of blame running through his veins, up his limbs, making the white bumps writhe with want. 

“Nobody can help you now,” Jim’s voice ricocheted, filling the room, “You’re gone, little Sherly,” in and outside of his mind, Moriarty cackled. 

 

When Sherlock walked back through the front door of 221B Baker Street, the first thing he heard was John talking on the telephone. He did not sound happy. Sherlock climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, skipping the ones that creaked. As he stood outside of the open apartment door, he listened. From the other end of the phone line came Mycroft’s adenoidal voice. Just fantastic, Sherlock thought. 

“What? No, Mycroft. There’s nothing wrong with him, I swear. He’s been reserved, but it’s nothing we haven’t seen before. It’s the case. It’s got us all rattled,”

Mycroft’s voice was muted, but not unintelligible, on the other end of the line.

“Exactly, John, the case. It’s been a month, and there’s been absolutely no progress whatsoever. That, as I am sure you are well aware, is not normal. I don’t care how chatty or sullen he seems, there is something wrong. However, the good news is, to my knowledge and the knowledge of every single one of my employees, he is not currently using,”

Sherlock’s anger peaked and he strode through the doorway, sleeve flashing as the phone disappeared from John’s hand to an exclamation of protest. He would show his snotty brother how much he cared about this case. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock barked, his voice icy.

“Oh, there you are, beloved baby brother.”

“Stop your stupid alliteration games. I want you to quit calling John to worry about me. Everything is fine.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” Mycroft drawled, “I will believe that the minute you can confide in me with confidence the name of the human that has committed this… troublesome crime,” Sherlock felt his mouth was surely boiling. 

“Do you know? Do you know who did it?”

“Brother mine, don’t tell me you haven’t ruled out the impossible. See, this is your problem. You simply cannot separate the living from the dead,” Sherlock seethed and Mycroft took the silence as defeat, “Remember, little brother, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. But that means you need to be able to distinguish reality from dreams, first,” There was a pause as he waited for Sherlock to respond. The detective made no moves.  
“I know you have been… down, Sherlock. I will be watching you, brother dear,” with that, Mycroft hung up. Sherlock resisted the urge to take John’s phone and crush it under his heel. 

The floorboards creaked as Sherlock glanced John peering through the doorway.

“Everything alright?” he asked tentatively. Sherlock, not wanting to waste time and breath responding, simply swept himself past the shorter man, dropping John’s phone into his palm on the way out. He picked up Watson from the kitchen and sat down in his chair with her. she was a bit like his new skull, he mused. Practically mute, and a bit dumb.

John had not moved from the spot. Sometimes, Sherlock felt that his compatriot’s intelligence was also regressing. Then again, a little voice said, was his not as well?

He opened his laptop and began to type, the baby’s head lolling against his shoulder. Although Sherlock was adamantly against pleading with Mycroft to tell him who the murderer was, assuming he actually knew, Sherlock needed to be absolutely sure that it was not his sister. The Holmes had not been to visit her in quite some time. Not that it mattered, she was so far gone, but the doubt would not disappear. He clicked open his email.

His skin crawled as he typed. S-h-er-r-r-i-n... Rosie calmly drooled down Sherlock’s sleeve. The sound of the keys formed a rhythm and he barely noticed John slipping out of the kitchen and into his room. The email composed itself rapidly and reading it back, Sherlock snorted in disgust. It reeked of fear and contempt. As he professionalized it, his mind wandered.

Although their violin-playing hours were calming and deeply loved by his parents, Sherlock could not help but hate Eurus. There was a simple logic to it, he had convinced himself. She had killed his childhood best friend, the person who had mattered to him most in the entire world. Victor. Then, she had tortured and tried to kill him, his brother, and the man that he now cared for more than anyone, John. Sherlock could not bring himself to love someone that had wanted to destroy everything he had ever loved, for his whole life. 

The detective was brought back to the present as Rosie stirred, causing the river of drool to lazily flow onto Sherlock’s hand.  
“Lovely,” he muttered as he gingerly wiped it onto his shirt, and shifted her to send the email. If he did not receive a reply in two days time, it would be up to Sherlock to uncover the truth.

At that moment little Watson chose to wake. Sherlock considered putting her back in her crib, but he could hear John’s soft snores through the thin walls, so he entertained her as quietly as he could. Not that he had as much experience with babies as he did with, say, types of tobacco, but he had certainly learned how things were done over the past year. He was no Mary, but deep down, Sherlock genuinely cared for and had Rosie’s best interests at heart. 

As any parent would, he had doubts. Was a man like him, with a past like his, fit to be raising a child? He had generally let John take care of most things in the beginning, but had quickly realized how unfair that was. Now, it was like Rosie was his only anchor. She knew what was real. Sherlock didn’t. As his thoughts wandered further and further from discernment, his body betrayed him. Watson was fast asleep against his chest, and soon his head bowed down to join her.

In his dream, her angelic little face twisted, covered with thick black cloth. Two eye holes had been crudely poked out. A gun rose, and Sherlock fell back. The shock resounded around him, like he was trapped in a mirror. Figures came at him from all directions. They were black, with busts for heads.

 _Coming for you, coming for you, coming for you._ The voices echoed louder and louder as they filled the infinite space. Sherlock screamed, and the ground opened beneath him. Bricks blurred past, and he desperately tried to grab onto something, anything, as his fall accelerated. Blue eyes stared up at him from the light, a single blonde curl peeking from the bottom of the mask. As he hit the ground, the light shut out. 

Sherlock gasped for breath on the cold stone floor. Fluorescent lights switched on with a whir and he found Jim and Eurus staring down at him. The mastermind was grinning, while Eurus was crying. She was in a straight jacket, Moriarty clutching her arm so hard that purple marks had begun to appear on her bicep. As her mouth moved, begging for help, Jim’s voice slithered from it.

“Do you know what a guilty person looks like, Sherlock?” the detective’s mouth gaped as he looked desperately at Moriarty, “Oh, no, don’t look at me. She’s the live one. Ask her who did it. You just have to look for the guilty party, Sherlock. Why’s it so hard for you, huh?” Moriarty’s mouth split into a painful grin, stretching his face and tearing skin. Blood began to pool in Eurus’ eyes. Sherlock whimpered.

“Oh, Sherly. You know what guilty looks like. You see it in the mirror every day,” as Jim’s cackle fell out of the Holmes girl’s mouth, she started to transform. Her hair fell out in chunks until she was left with taut, deep brown curls. She cried, her eyebrows thickening, and although her face had barely changed, Sherlock could see himself in that agonized stare.

 

John was shaking him. As his eyes fluttered open, a colorful jumper reached over his face to grab a crying Watson, grumbling about all the noise he made while he slept. John stumbled into the kitchen with the baby, cooing all the way. Sherlock set his head back and sighed. His fingers twitched as he rubbed his eyes, cool thumbs pressed to the lids. Two nightmares, he thought. One in life, one in sleep. When would they end?


	3. The Mayfly Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has never felt so tantalized. The leads on the case are as cold as Sherlock's attitude towards John, and he can't keep up with Rosie's constant state of exuberance. However, hope is unveiled with the help of Lestrade, and Sherlock comes back briefly. John snaps and makes a life-changing decision, for good or bad. When will he come to terms with who he truly is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhh it's been so long !!! here is chapter 3. writing from john's perspective is so much more fun lollll. i hope everyoone who reads it enjoys it <3 this one is super angsty but chapter 4 hopefully coming soon isn't toooo bad ;)

“A-apple!” Rosie shrieked, almost toppling over in excitement. John smiled and put it back on the counter. 

“Ok,” he said to her, “Next one...” he pulled an orange from the fruit bowl. Rosie clapped and giggled. He wished oranges made him this happy.

“O-rag! Oran!” she gazed up at her dad with a gummy smirk. 

“Not quite, Rosie. It’s an orange.” he watched her lips mimic his as he sounded it out. John chuckled as her little face contorted. 

A phone rang in the other room. Annoyed, John shouted at Sherlock to pick it up. Rosie babbled to herself as the phone continued to ring. John sighed and picked it up off the sitting room side table. The caller ID blinked up at him.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he spat dryly into the phone. John had neither the patience nor the time for this today.

“Hello, John. How is everything?” the older man’s voice was anything but interested. John knew why he was calling. It was the same reason he called practically every other day. Sherlock. 

“Everything, as I am sure you remember I told you two days ago, is fine. I am working my very hardest here, Mycroft,” John was growing weary of these conversations, but he had no idea how to sate Mycroft’s need for information. And although he hated admitting it to himself, John was plenty worried about Sherlock himself. 

“Yes, as you say,” the oldest Holmes brother drawled, “where is he now?” 

“How the bloody hell would I know? Do I look like his babysitter? You have surveillance all over. I’m sure you’ve noticed he’s out all the time nowadays. I don’t understand why you think anything’s changed.”

“Because of the circumstances, John. Everything is to be questioned right now. We cannot take chances,” his voice was too silky for John’s liking. 

“He’s not still out there. You know that, right?” John uttered, fearing for anything that wasn’t a confirmation.

“Most likely,” 

“That’s not a no, Mycroft. Stop playing this sick game with us. It’s fucking over, and you know it,” he had already hung up. John felt the same as he had all those years ago, being played with like a doll to make people laugh. It couldn’t be that complex. Who had grudges against Sherlock? It felt practically rudimentary, but John began to make a list. 

By the time Sherlock waltzed into 221b Baker Street for the first time in two days, John had set up a suspect board on the wall. It was sparse, but at least it was there. John turned to Sherlock. 

“Where have you been?” he clipped. 

“Oh, you know. Out and about. Finally got around to visiting the morgue... that was a few days ago, though. Just now I met with Mrs. Hudson for the most scrumptious tea and biscuits. By the way, you should pay her a visit,” he dropped dramatically into his chair and whispered, “Really though, I think she just misses the baby,” John was aghast. This man had so much nerve. He huffed, grabbed Rosie, and stomped down the stairs.

John supposed he did knock rather harder than necessary on Mrs. Hudson’s door, but his guilt was short-lived as she threw it open and plucked Rosie out of his arms. 

“Oh, John! How good to see you! Sherlock and I just had the most scrumptious tea and biscuits. Would you like some?” she winked at John as she sauntered into the kitchen. He sighed.

“Sure,” John called out, “Why not,” as he gazed around her front room, he remembered he must ask her about her soothers sometime. She talked about them a bit too often, John fancied.

Rosie was devouring biscuits as if she’d never seen sugar before. 

“Oh, my dear! Mrs. Hudson cooed, “Aren’t you getting a little thin?” she handed Rosie a few more before John cut her off. 

“Mrs. Hudson, please. She’s getting chubby,” but he couldn’t help but laugh as she tickled the baby’s cheeks. 

“I don’t know what you mean. She’s just plump enough,” they sat in silence as they finished their tea, the sweet air from the bakery drifting up and the music from Sherlock’s violin drifting down. 

“He hasn’t been playing an awful lot lately, has he?” Mrs. Hudson asked quizzically. 

“No, not really. He’s been out a lot. Says he’s working on the case, but who knows,” Mrs. Hudson clucked and fussed over Rosie, who was busy reaching for more sweets. 

“Well, no matter. There have been very few cases that you boys couldn’t solve. I bet I could count them all on one hand, love. This won’t be one of them, I’m sure of it,” she smiled at John, and he relaxed a bit. 

“Maybe,” she continued, “since you’ve been picking up most of the slack, you should take a day off. Relax. I can take Rosamund for the day,” John’s eye twitched. 

“Maybe, but not today. I’ve finally set up a suspect board, and I want to follow up on some things,” Mrs. Hudson sighed and reluctantly handed Rosie back over to John.

“Alright, love. Just keep it in mind. I’ve got nothing to keep me very busy these days anyhow,” she continued to berate the various household tasks that needed doing as John shut the door to the little apartment behind him. The violin stopped playing, and he heard footsteps receding to the back of the apartment. Fantastic. Now Sherlock was ignoring his as well as leaving for days at a time?

Rosie babbled all the way up the stairs and into her little playpen, happily munching on her toys. John sighed and collapsed into his chair. Everything was exhausting these days, especially doing nothing. Which is why he got to work. 

So far, the suspect board had five people: Moriarty, because John couldn’t bring himself to discount him; Eurus, because it had happened once; Sally Donovan, mostly because of his personal vendetta, but John felt there was substantial cause as well; Anderson??? had three question marks after it, for it was the man that had been nagging at Watson’s thoughts but evading him for weeks, and he had been missing for years; and a broad ‘employee’ of Jim Moriarty. 

As he reviewed the board, John felt doubt seep into his mind. Did he really believe that Sally Donovan could commit three gruesome murders? No, he thought. She might be a bloody bitch, but she was not a psychopath. Although, he did believe she had it in her to become an accomplice, he figured. Who could she have worked with? The answer seemed obvious. Anderson. But he had been off the grid since Sherlock seemingly came back to life. So consumed by his guilt about Holmes’ ‘suicide’ it was thought he went mad and killed himself in some remote place. Whether John believed that or not, was another story. However, considering Donovan’s track record of despising Sherlock, the list of possible comrades was endless. John let his head rest on the back of his chair and he rubbed his temples. Where to go with this?

 

Lestrade’s office door was propped open when John arrived. The detective was sitting with his head in his hands, a crumpled cigarette still smoking in the ashtray. 

“That bad, is it?” John noted wearily. Greg barely moved. 

“Just about, yeah,” he picked up the cig and took one last, sad drag before flicking it back into the ashtray. John shut the door behind him and took a seat in one of the hard chairs facing Lestrade’s desk. 

The state of the office was fit for Sherlock, John thought. The walls were practically dripping with pins and clippings, string and paper with ripped edges. The desk was a mess of documents and letters, folders strewn open half-off of the table, as close to giving up as the man who sat in front of them. 

“The public is freaking out, they don’t know what to do or who to turn to. I thought I would be able to keep this case contained, but the press had other plans. Bloody Donovan talked to them, apparently. Can’t keep anyone in this fucking place in line,” 

“Donovan? Why would she do that?” John’s phone dinged from the recesses of his jacket. He pushed it down deeper. Greg spread his hands palms up.

“I have no idea. On the other hand, these bloody eye bags haven’t been all for nothing,” he rummaged through the sea of his desk and John leaned forwards. He noticed the DI hadn’t even asked where Sherlock had been the past month. Did he know something? 

Shut up, John told himself. You’re here for the case, not Holmes. He can wait. 

“Oh, here it is. So, we’ve found the murder weapon. Apparently, our bloke is into construction as well,” 

John looked over the set of photos that were presented to him. Each one showed a sharpened saw, tinted red. It laid next to each of the body parts, the ragged edges of skin fitting perfectly into the notches of the weapon. The teeth were razor sharp, obviously pre-filed and ready for their purpose. It was huge, and looked very heavy. It had to be a man, then. So Donovan was, in fact, out of the picture as the murderer. It was propped up on the side of the house, a hole in the azaleas and a stream of blood down the siding of the cottage the only indication of what had really happened there. 

“No prints, nothing?” John glanced at the older man. 

“None. It’s baffling us all. This has to be the work of a professional, or at least someone very experienced. There has to be an explanation,”

“Oh, I’m sure Sherlock could find a way to disagree,” John muttered. If Greg heard, he made no comment. 

“So...” Watson took out his little notebook, “We’re looking for someone highly trained, knows forensic countermeasures, but doesn’t have access to high quality equipment... Someone obsessed with the police?” With Sherlock?” John mused. Lestrade looked lost. Before he could ask anymore questions, Donovan barged into the office.

“Greg, call for you. It’s time for your lunch meeting,” John’s brow furrowed. 

“Lunch meeting?” Lestrade waved him off as he gingerly rose from his place.

“Keep up the good work, and let’s continue to try and make some more headway here,” with that, he left, John’s hand still poised above his paper, pen in hand. With a huff, he followed.

 

As he reached the doorstep of 221B Baker Street, John stopped. He was so tired of this back and forth, with no real information presenting itself. He knew the killer, he was sure. After all these years, with his only focus being Sherlock and everything about him, John was sure he had to know who it was. As he turned the key in the lock, John welcomed the distraction of returning to Rosie.

Mrs. Hudson was busying herself in the kitchen, making tea and even putting out some fruit. Rosie sat in her high chair, biscuit in hand. She protested as he plucked it from her chubby fingers. Mrs. Hudson spoiled her too much, and she knew it. Looking out the window, John saw that it was getting dark already. 

“John! Standing there like a statue, you frightened me! Come, have something to eat, or some tea? You must be famished after your day,” John graciously accepted the food, practically shoving it down his gullet. He really hadn’t realized how long it had been since his last meal. 

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. He entertained Rosie, they drew some pictures together, and eventually she dozed off. To his dismay, John could not shift his thoughts off of Sherlock. Where was he going? Was he ok? Why wasn’t he working on the case? Was he using? It things were too hard for him, why didn’t he talk to John? He had none of the answers, and it infuriated him.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m going out tonight. Do you mind taking Rosie?” the older woman’s face basically glowed.

“Of course not! John Watson, taking my advice! Hand her over, love. Oh, and don’t forget to have fun and tell Sherlock hello from me,” she winked. 

As he locked the door behind him, John seethed. Sherlock was the last person he wanted to think about tonight. In fact, he was the very person that John wanted to forget about. With that resolve, he grabbed a cab.

 

The club was crowded. Not more crowded than expected for a Friday night, for sure, but still decently packed. The bartender’s eyes flashed with recognition as John slid into the seat in front of him, but he barked out his order before the man could comment on it. 

Four shots later, John was feeling comfortably relaxed. John supposed it couldn’t hurt to order another. And after that, one more. Having one too many shots after the day he had had… That couldn’t be a crime, John decided. The clock ticked, blurring. It settled on 11:30. 

“Hello, handsome,” the room melted together as John turned his head. He felt a steady hand on his upper arm. Sherlock stared back at him. He rubbed his eyes and opened them again. Definitely not Sherlock. The tall man ran a hand through his thick, dark curls. 

“How about I treat you to one last round? Looks like you don’t need more than that,” John couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening. Was this man flirting with him? The other side of John’s brain countered. Was he really going to say no to free alcohol?

“Why not,” the man slid gracefully into the seat next to his. Although, John noticed, he had to steady himself with a strong grip on the bar. Great. They were both wasted. 

“My name’s Sherlock,” John blanched.

“Sherlock?” the man’s bright eyes glittered. Wait. Not bright. They were a deep brown.

“Not quite. I said Will. My name’s Will. And yours?”

“John,” he slurred, “Definitely John. You’re very drunk too, aren’t you,” he cursed himself in this head. What the fuck was he doing?

“Yes, quite. Although not as much as you, I’m afraid. Got a bit of a tolerance, I suppose,” it took John a couple seconds and a bright, charming smile from Will to get the joke. He giggled. 

“So, where are you off to after a night like this?” Will leaned his chin on his hand, long fingers splayed along his soft, flushed cheek. John couldn’t stop staring, not realizing he was still waiting for an answer.

“Oh, home, I suppose. Might be here for a while more, though,” 

_Oh fuck, John. What the fuck are you playing at? You know what he’s implying. Fucking think of a better excuse._ His last shot almost missed his mouth as he gulped it down. Will followed, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. 

“Would you be willing to change that plan a bit?” John’s head lolled towards the other man’s, heart racing and thoughts screaming at him to stop.

“Like… How?” his mind was a bubble, the terror of the situation masked and tamed by the warm effects of the alcohol throughout this pliant body. John reached for another drink. Will gently grabbed his wrist and placed John’s hands over one another. 

“Like… This,” Will leaned in.

John had never felt so embarrassed as they stumbled out of the cab. Will was laughing, leaning all over John as he wheezed. Up the stairs, fumbling with the key… _Never a sober man’s with them, never a drunk’s without them._ Will pulled him inside his apartment, the door shutting dramatically behind them. Together, they swayed like a boat about to capsize. John couldn’t stop running his hands through Will’s hair, making goosebumps appear on the man’s neck and his flushed lips part. 

John initiated a kiss for the first time that night, the rooms blurring together as they passed them, Watson reveling in the taller man’s ethereal beauty. John’s knees buckled behind him as he was lowered onto a bed. He inhaled, sharp. Will gazed at him, without green-blue eyes. 

“Are you sure?” Will whispered. HIs touch was gentle, and kind. No matter how much he hated it, it was exactly what John wanted. He pulled Will onto him and let his hands explore. 

“Yes,” the liqueur churned in John’s stomach, and he watched the man unbutton his purple shirt.

 

The rhythmic thumping was what woke John. He pulled a pillow over his head, trying to alleviate the pain. Soon, however, he realized the source of the noise was, in fact, his own head. The quiet sound of violin drifted through the open door, but it simply sounded like horrid screeching to John. He pulled the pillow furthur over his eyes. 

“Sherlock,” he moaned, “Stop that, please,” padding footsteps neared the bed. 

“That man again? He must be truly enrapturing,” John’s breath stopped. He could feel his heart skipping beats as he removed the pillow from his face. He was, indeed, not in his bedroom. The man now perched on the end of the bed, although not without resemblance, was definitely not Sherlock. Oh, fuck. Was the only thought that John’s mind was capable of conjuring.  
The man burst out laughing. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Come to the kitchen. Coffee?” he flashed John a kindly, charming smile and gestured for him to follow, white Calvin’s swaying through the doorway. John felt he might pass out.

The apartment was nice; very white. Everything had its place, yet there was room for lots of trinkets and photos. John liked it. 

“Do you take sugar?” _The hound. You know I don’t take sugar._

“No, thank you,” the sparse memories of the night before were piecing themselves together. He felt sick. What had he done?

Together, the two men drank their coffee in silence, Will with a newspaper propped open, splayed across his lap, John with cinched eyebrows and recollections that wouldn’t surface. Eventually, Will broke the silence.

“Is he your boyfriend?” John put his coffee cup down, the clink of glass hitting counter jarring his hungover mind. 

“No,” his voice cracked. Will closed his paper and turned to face John.

“You’ve never… Done anything like that before, have you?” his voice was gentle, not judgmental or off-put in any way, but somehow it made John feel worse. 

“God, was it that bloody obvious?” he could feel his neck heating up, his throat closing over a wave of tears that threatened to overflow.

“No, not at all. That’s not what I meant, John. I meant… I used to be like you. I think I might understand what’s happening to you,” 

“You have no idea what’s happening to me,” John could feel himself losing control, “I lost everything in the war when my family fell apart. Then, I lose my best friend for two years, and once I meet the love of my life, he comes back. Now, she’s dead, and I-” his voice cracked, “I don’t know what I’m feeling,” he breathed out, shakily. The coffee wasn’t helping anymore. John can feel Will’s wide mouth stare, the way his body tensed, unprepared for the spew of information.

“I don’t know what that’s like, you’re right. I didn’t mean to minimize your experiences, John,” Will paused, his easy breaths ruffling the paper napkin in front of him, “Can I ask you something?” John nodded, “Do I remind you of him?” _Purple shirt. Unbutton. Pulling brown curls. Lithe figure. Standing over me._

“A bit,”


End file.
